Monthly Archives: October 2011

In the primb of libe

All the experts say that cold weather does not cause colds, but it seems awfully suspicious to me that every time the temperature drops around October I immediately get a sore throat and, within a few days, have more junk in my throat than a Jersey Shore cast member on a Saturday night.

The theory is that when it’s cold you spend more time indoors, which means germs spread easier from person to person … or something. I’m not sure I believe that, because I feel like I spend the majority of my time indoors regardless of the season on account of I work in an office 8-10 hours a day. Is that weird? Do other people set up their workspaces outdoors for the warm months, only retreating indoors when it starts to get chilly? Are there, like, poolside office suites I am unaware of? Could I be getting my annual July pap smear in the middle of a tranquil meadow? I do not immediately sequester myself in a roomful of people and have them mouth-breathe on me the very minute the seasons change, is my point. Yet, the sore throat. Always, the sore throat.

My boyfriend is even sicker than I am, which is why I scoured the Internet yesterday for good chicken soup recipes. Only they all wanted me to do shit like boil a raw chicken carcass (gross) and roll my own egg noodles. I don’t do those things when I’m fully functional, much less when I feel like I just spent an hour gargling broken glass with Satan’s tears. I finally just decided to make up my own recipe and GUESS WHAT? It turned out pretty damn awesome. According to two people who currently can’t smell anything unless it’s jammed into their nasal cavity, anyway.

First I chopped up some onion, carrots, celery, jalapeño* and three cloves of garlic, and sautéed it all in a bit of olive oil. It looked like this:

Then I gagged my way through ripping the meat off of a rotisserie chicken like a caveman and dumped it in with the vegetables. I then added a 48-oz. box of chicken broth and about half a 24-oz. box of vegetable broth and an entire bag of rotini. After that, I proceeded to rummage around the spice cabinet and dump in the spices that haven’t yet globbed themselves into one giant clump inside the container – which turned out to be oregano, garlic salt and cumin. I let this all simmer together for, oh, about A MILLION HOURS because it turns out that I made enough soup for about 10 people. When the pasta was finally cooked we tried it out and it was magnificent. I forgot to take a shot of the finished product because we were watching an early season of “Law and Order: SVU” and I was really invested in learning about how if you send emails on the World Wide Web, you will get raped and possibly killed. Bonus tip from Elliot: Just because some guy’s screen name is The Yachtsman it does not mean he is a gentleman waiting to whisk you away to a life of maritime paradise. Well played, Detective Stabler. Well played.

What do you like to eat when you’re sick? I’m guessing at some point we’ll need a break from all this soup…

* The jalapeño was to clear out our sinuses … mission accomplished. It was also neat to feel like I could start a forest fire with my sneezes.

I don’t want my baby’s first words to be “How you doing!”

When my sister called to tell me she was pregnant nine months ago, I had a little bit of a crisis. Not because I feel like I should be having kids, but because I realized I am actually old enough to HAVE kids without people assuming I was once a tragic, knocked-up teenager. When I got off the phone with my sister, I realized that even if I had waited until I was in my 20s, I could have a 7-year-old child right now, which is crazy. For proof, I offer this: It’s 6:30 p.m. on a Sunday as I type this and I am still in the pajamas I put on Saturday night. Today my meals have consisted of a frozen Totino’s pizza and a cookie-dipped Drumstick. I should not be allowed to be in charge of another person’s life, is what I am saying, since I am apparently on board with giving myself adult-onset diabetes and looking like an “after” shot on the Faces of Meth website as I sit on the pulled-out sofa bed watching X Files DVDs for seven hours straight. That last sentence was a gift to the Internet: Try reading that without immediately feeling better about your life choices. Even you, Paris Hilton.

Even after meeting my nephew two weeks ago and witnessing my sister and her husband display their awesome parenting skills, it still seems surreal that my sister and I are old enough to be doing this. It feels like just yesterday that I stole her diary, saw an unsavory entry about how she suspected I was reading it, and then proceeded to scrawl, “I DO NOT READ YOUR DIARY YOU JERK!” with a marker across her accusations.

Nobody was surprised I did not grow up to be a genius.

And speaking of surprises, I was shocked at my response to holding the little dude. I was prepared to love him because, duh, he’s my nephew, but I was not prepared to tear up when he scrunched up his little face because his tummy hurt. Or to tear up thinking about him going off to his first day of school. That’s right. The kid is two weeks old and I am worrying about an event a good five years away. That I will probably not even witness. WHO AM I. And then when I saw him wrapped up in the neon blanket I crocheted for him I almost died:

DEAR JOSHUA: YOUR AUNT HEATHER IS A CRAZY PERSON.

I did tear up one other time on the trip, but that was because we went to this burger place where you can order a cheeseburger with doughnuts for buns:

The only thing missing is the coronary stent you are going to need an hour after leaving the restaurant.

I know what you’re thinking, and yes, it was totally worth having to explain the track marks on my arms from mainlining Pepto Bismol for three days after this meal.  I did take that night as an opportunity to explain to little Joshua about gas pains, and about how if he’s scrunching his face up to cry because of a little milk indigestion he had better toughen up because there is a whole host of delicious foods out there in the world just waiting to give him diarrhea.

I think my sister might be glad I live 1,200 miles away.

I’m not dead!

I feel really guilty about not posting in forever, but first I was in Colorado meeting this little guy, who I wanted to take back with me in my suitcase because look how cute:

Fifteen years from now I will get teary-eyed while showing him this picture and he will be all "GET OUT OF MY WAY I CAN'T SEE THE T.V."

Somebody invent a contraption that allows me to reach from California to Colorado and pinch his cheeks.

And then when I got back from my trip, work took a giant turd on my life and I spent my non-office hours this week and last curled in a ball clutching a bottle of wine.

Now that I have some time to breathe,  I plan to blog all about my trip to Colorado (which included a hamburger with doughnuts for buns and multiple rolls of Tums) but for now here is a text conversation I just had with my boyfriend, who is going back to school and recently decided to start riding the bus to his classes:

Him: I’m hearing an honest-to-God Dungeons and Dragons equipment conversation on the bus.

Me: WHAT ARE THEY SAYING?

Him: Well apparently Hector’s wagon can hold your arrows of fire while you’re dungeoneering, depending on your physique.

Me: Please ask to see his magic missile.

Him: I should. Right now we’re getting tips on how conjuring a nature spirit can help you gain plant monsters’ trust.

Me: MY HEAD IS EXPLODING.

Him: If you’re wondering, Void Mages are a little “fruity in the loops” because they’ve seen the Void Man. And the Champion Zerath took in so much magic power he could only sustain the form of a ball of energy.

I am totally going to start riding the bus.